Autumn and her True Colors

In the last few days, two trips to a few of the 46 peaks allowed me to share Hammond’s awe of the natural wonders this part of the world has to offer. On Friday, Annie and I summited Allen Mountain, although we joked that anyone had to be at least a little out of his or her mind to voluntarily make the trip. It was seemingly endless, and required more stamina and will power than I knew I had. However, the extensive nature of the trail rewarded us with a myriad of sights and experiences. In the early morning hours, we snuck past what looked like the opening scene of a horror movie: a bridge destroyed by Hurricane Irene leading only to the middle of the eerie, misty water of a silent pond. A few hours later, I watched the largest amphibian I have ever seen climb into a bush two steps to my right. We encountered waterfalls, rock faces, crossed an icy river barefoot, and were exposed to an entirely new view of mountains we previously thought we were familiar with.   Similarly, yesterday’s trip to Phelps Mountain revealed a breathtaking view at the summit, this time a panorama, offering layer after of layer of peaks into the distance. If the mountains themselves weren’t impressive enough, the foliage only amplified the effect. Just as every hiker that crossed our path promised, it was well worth the effort to reach it.

            Both trips however, also had something else in common. They both included a hint of panic, brief but vivid moments when nature transformed from a beauty to appreciate into a dangerous force, an enemy that had to be overcome. Annie and I were misled by a poorly marked trail on our way out from Allen, and although we knew our situation was nowhere near hopeless, we suddenly became hyperaware of our food and water supply, as well as our lack of warm overnight clothing. From one minute to the next, the ground beneath our feet went from being our guide home to something to be afraid of. The excitement over the new and never-before-seen mutated into an urgent desire to see a familiar landmark.

            Likewise, my co-leader and I (also named Annie, oddly enough), had a similar episode of navigational trouble yesterday. Our itinerary told us to “continue along the trail” once we had reached Marcy Dam. We interpreted this to mean that we should carry on straight through in the same direction we had come from. A few years ago this would have been accurate, since the trail used to cut directly across the dam. What we didn’t know was that now the trail we were meant to follow circled back around the dam to a bridge in order to get to the other side. In any case, we passed by several lean-tos and campsites before deciding that it was best to return to the dam to reorient ourselves. On our way there, I had a 30-second period of (suppressed) anxiety before recognizing the back of a lean-to that we had passed. From that moment onward, I felt a heightened sense of relief whenever I passed a colored trail marker reassuring me that I wasn’t lost.

            In Hammond’s writing, I find that he and his guide also explore the duality of admiration and fear of their surroundings. In Chapter XI, the two men express their very different opinions of the bald eagle. Hammond refers to the creature as “feathered majesty”(110), or the “king of birds”(69). It is one of the only instances where he seems to feel remorse for killing an animal; “I am not sure that I felt precisely satisfied, for having slaughtered that princely bird (111).” His guide on the other hand, believes that the eagle is nothing but a thief and a robber, an adversary that deserves to be killed. He considers him to be a “mean, selfish critter” (112). Much the same as the multiple personalities of Mother Nature, perhaps the bird is both a prince and a thief.